Tradeoff
by Jubalii
Summary: So a letter gets misplaced. No big deal, right? Wrong. Espella's little mix-up leads to some very heated bargaining for a pair of ex-Inquisitors.


**Author's Note:** Do you think I'm sorry? You don't know me very well, then.

 **Don't own, never will; same old song and dance, my friend.**

* * *

"Sir Barnham!" Espella clapped both hands on each of the ginger knight's shoulders. He sat up with a gasp, pushing something quickly to the side of the desk as he turned in his chair to look at her. She unwound the scarf from her head and let it dangle from her neck, grinning teasingly at him.

"E-E-Miss Cantabella!" he choked, quickly shuffling some papers and spreading them over the desk before picking up what looked like a weather-beaten notebook and a dull quill. "What are you doing here so late in the evening?" he asked her, this time in a manner of forced calm.

"I was looking for Eve, but she doesn't seem to be in," Espella explained slowly, glancing over to the other, more pristine side of the dual office. "Has she already gone home for the day?"

"Yes, she left some time ago, so that she could get home before sundown." The stern, 'knightly' expression flitted across his face. "You should get home, too. 'Tis not right for a young lady to walk the streets alone at dark."

"I know." Espella shrugged carelessly, as if she really didn't care whether or not walking home by herself was unseemly after sundown. "But I've walked home plenty of times in the dark before, on the path from the marketplace to the bakery. It doesn't bother me."

"It should!" he proclaimed. "'Tis indecent! You're not a child anymore. There are certain things you have to start watching out for…now…" he trailed off, flushing awkwardly. "I'm really not the one that should be telling you that. You should already know." His voice filled with a warm, brotherly affection. "Come. I'm nearly finished here—I'll walk back to the bakery with you."

"Alright. If you must." Espella looked at the cluttered desk curiously. "What were you working on? You seemed really absorbed in it; you didn't even hear me come in." She picked up the dumbbell sitting on the topmost stack of papers. It was heavy, forcing her to balance herself with her hip on the edge of the desk.

"No, don't!" Before he could stop her, she put her full weight on the desk as the dumbbell came completely off the stack of papers. There was a groaning sound and the papers began to slide as the desk leaned sideways and sagged in on itself. Espella was frozen in shock, staring as the desk collapsed, but the knight jumped up and grabbed the dumbbell from her, pushing her back out of the way as he slapped the weight back on the desk with a _thud_.

Another groan had it right side up again, and the young woman could see now that the weight of the dumbbell kept it from leaning to the side—one of the legs was broken. He fixed the balancing weight, but most of the papers had scattered in the floor and had been blown as far as Eve's desk. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stared forlornly at the mess.

"I'm sorry," Espella apologized, bending down to pick up the papers nearest her boots. "It's my fault that it fell, but really: you shouldn't have such a built-up clutter on your desk," she half-scolded as she began to crawl towards the center of the room, picking up old receipts for reconstruction work, memos, and a few pages filled with notes and doodles in the corners.

"'Tis fine. I should have warned you sooner," he replied, going in the opposite direction to pick up the papers that had scattered near the door. She continued to grab all the documents, stacking them up neatly in her hands. Finally she reached the last few directly in front of Eve's desk. She bent down to grab a quill that had rolled partially underneath the desk when her fingers brushed something. She tilted her head over further and saw a small envelope hidden in the recess of the desk's shadow, just behind one of the legs. _As small as it is, there's no wonder it managed to make it all this way when the desk broke_ , she thought as she fished it out.

She pulled out the envelope, turning it over to see that Eve's name was written on it. She paused, staring down before turning to Barnham. He was still bent with his back to her, trying to sort papers into some sort of order as he gathered them. She almost called out, but as she looked up at her friend's desk, she saw the mailbox sitting directly above the leg that the letter was hidden behind. Most likely it had been dropped during a mail run; after all, it had Eve's name on it, not Barham's. Shrugging, she stood and maneuvered the papers in her hand so that she could place the letter neatly with the others waiting for the ex-High Inquisitor in her mailbox.

"Alright, this should be all of them." She handed them to him and let him put them back on the desk in a way that evened out the weight across the structure. "Won't Eve get you a new desk?"

"Miss Eve doesn't know it's broken," he replied simply. "She warned me once that if I broke my desk by being rough with it, she'd make me sit and write on the floor. So she won't _ever_ know about this," he avowed. Espella stared at him a long moment.

"But what if she comes in and tries to move the dumbbell?" Barnham brightened and grinned.

"She won't. She thinks my desk is 'an eyesore' and always threatens to stick me in the stockades if I don't clean it. She hates looking at it, so she never comes near enough to move anything." Espella bit her lip. _I don't think that's a good thing, Sir Barnham._

"Well, if you're sure," she finally replied, taking a last wary glance at the poor desk. "Come on. We should head home before Aunt Patty starts to worry. If you're dead-set on walking with me, that is."

"Right!" he bowed and ushered her ahead of him. "A true knight never gives a lady—or a baker—cause for concern. Let us hurry."

* * *

Eve let out a breath as she sat down at her desk, brushing imaginary dust off the surface and regarding her workspace with a calm smile. Despite the heavy pressure that came with reconstructing an entire town, she really loved her job. Seeing that nothing was amiss, she began her first task of the day—reading her mail and responding in time for the first postal run.

Taking the mail from her box, she shuffled through the envelopes quickly. Bill, bill, bill, note from Boistrum, bill, memo from the Storyteller, receipt of payment from a carpenter, something that should be in Sir Barnham's box instead of hers, bill, bi— _what's this_? She stopped, putting down the other envelopes and looking at the small letter in her hand. Her name was written on the front, but there was no return address. There wasn't her address or a stamp either, but that usually didn't matter since the resident postwoman knew everyone's address and usually handled unmarked mail just as easily as marked.

She frowned, wondering why this piece of personal mail wasn't delivered to her home. Maybe Lettie just saw her name and threw it in her work mail absentmindedly? Shaking her head at the courier, she opened the letter with one expert swipe, throwing the envelope aside and looking at the paper. It was written in a familiar, uneven scrawl that was barely legible and cramped to the point of running together on the parchment.

Her confusion grew as she glanced up at the perpetually overloaded, unorganized mess that belonged to her workmate. Why on earth would Sir Barnham write her a letter when he worked with her? Besides, he saw her at least twice a week at the bakery with Espella. She sighed and set to reading the letter, trying to figure out what was so important that he felt the need to make it formal and present it to her in writing.

 _Dear Eve:_ This was scratched out, with _Dear Miss Eve:_ written directly beneath it, also scratched out. Beneath _that_ was _D—st Eve_ , scribbled over so hard it was barely readable, and then beneath that _To Miss Eve:_. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, looking through the two pages of paper to see many similar scratch-outs and rewrites. Why did he not just write something and stick with it? What did it matter that he called her Miss Eve or just Eve? She continued reading, tilting her head in silent frustration as she began decoding the foreign language that was his handwriting.

 _To Miss Eve:_

 _It was my intention to write a poem that completely captured your essence in written word. I hope I have succeeded in such an endeavor._

She stopped, peering quickly at the rest of the letter to see that it was blocked off strangely. This was a poem? For her? She huffed, shoulder slumping. If this was like the _last_ time he tried to capture her in anything, she didn't want to read it. That éclair had tasted fine, if not a little stale, but the thought that _that_ éclair was the one he thought resembled her still made her uneasy. She'd even asked him if he'd been trying to tell her that she was getting…lumpy; he'd nearly fainted from lack of breath trying to explain how he made his choice, swearing up and down that he hadn't chosen it for the lumps.

 _To whom could I express  
who wouldn't completely acquiesce _  
_that your beauty was the best  
and would easily pass any test?_

A stern glare that turns sweet  
flowing hair and dainty feet  
'Tis always quite the treat  
to see you walking in the street.

 _And if you were mine now  
I'd place a kiss upon your brow,  
all the while wondering how  
to make you laugh and not scowl. _

_Yours,_

 _Zacharias Barnham_

She sat for a full ten minutes, staring at the paper disbelievingly. Was this— _what_ was this? Some sort of crazy love confession? She closed the paper and looked up guiltily, glancing around to make sure no imagined person was reading it over her shoulder. What the hell was he thinking, writing this and putting it in her mailbox?

She put it to the side and buried her face in her arms. She wasn't impressed, though she _was_ surprised that he used a word like 'acquiesce' and made things rhyme with it. It was idiotic and asinine, and poorly written, and hardly legible… but then why were her cheeks burning?! It's not like she actually _wanted_ any foolish love letters!

She imagined him writing it, tongue stuck out as he scratched his head over how to word what he wanted to say. A slow, steady montage crept through her mind of him: how he hummed tunes as he worked, the way his hair stuck to his neck after a sparring session in the garrison, the deadly precision with which he practiced his knife throwing, the way his bare arms looked as he worked in the bakery kneading and pressing and lifting all sorts of heavy things….

She gasped and sat up, shaking her head. No, it could be! After all, she only respected him. And admired his work ethic. And thought that maybe he wasn't the ugliest man in town—in fact he was in good shape and his face was symmetrical, so he was nice looking. Very handsome, in fact. _Handsome. HANDSOME?! No, he's not!_

 _Yes, he is_ , another part of her mind argued. _And it's cute how he fawns over that little fluff ball of a mutt. And even though you don't like to admit it, you were touched when he gave you that éclair. Just like you're touched now._

"Psh. I'm touched alright," she muttered as she folded the letter decisively and stuck it back in the envelope. "Touched in the head for even _thinking_ such foolish things." She stood, envelope in hand, and left the rest on her desk. She'd come back to them later, mail run or no mail run. Right now, she was going to go find Barnham and put an end to this absurdity once and for all. No more éclairs, no more poems.

In theory the idea was all well and good, but the closer she came to the bakery the more her resolve began to fail her. After all, what was she supposed to say? She wasn't even sure how she really felt about it yet: she was annoyed, and most certainly confused, and maybe just a little pleased at the attention ( _I'm not_ , half her mind argued in vain while the other preened exultantly). And she didn't want to hurt his feelings; he was a good friend, if a little annoying at times with his knightly sentiments and quotes. It's not like she never wanted to speak to him again, but… but what? She really ought to have thought about it more; it wasn't too late, she could still turn around and pretend like she'd never seen—

"Eve! Hi!" She was torn out of her thoughts, looking up to see Espella and Mrs. Eclaire walking towards her. Bundled up against the late autumn chill, they looked like two walking piles of cloth. Only the tips of Espella's nose and eyes appeared above the knitted scarf she'd somehow managed to wind beneath her hood, and her voice was muffled as she called out.

"We were just on our way to see the Storyteller," Mrs. Eclaire said as they drew closer. Her hair stuck out beneath her winter hat in frizzy red tufts. "You weren't headed to the bakery just now, were you?"

"You should come with us!" Espella piped up. "Dad would like to see you, I'm sure. We're having tea with him, so we closed up the shop early." Eve smiled politely, but shook her head.

"No, I think I'll pass. I actually was headed to find Zacharias. I have to speak to him; it can't wait until work hours." Mrs. Eclaire looked concerned, a gloved hand going to her cheek; Espella might have looked worried if she could have seen her entire face.

"Oh my. Is everything alright?" Mrs. Eclaire asked anxiously. Eve nodded quickly, plastering on what she hoped was a 'nothing is wrong' expression.

"Oh, yes. It's just a matter of—well, it's just some business that couldn't wait until the morning. Is he at the bakery?" she asked, hoping to lead the two away from the subject. "Or did he leave for the garrison today?"

"No, he's at the bakery," Espella answered. "He said that he'd stay and work on marmalade loaves until we returned, so that we wouldn't fall too far behind if we closed up. The door's locked, so you might have to knock."

"Yes, he'll let you in," Mrs. Eclaire agreed. "He's such a good boy… such a hardworking young man. Really, he's a good catch," she pointed out not-so-subtly, arching a brow in clear suggestion. Before Eve could even figure out how to respond, she turned and patted her young charge on the back. "Come now; we better hurry. It's only getting colder out here and I'd hate to keep your father waiting on us."

"Oh, right." Espella's eyes brightened merrily above the crimson pattern of her scarf. "Bye, Eve! Don't shout too loudly if you and Sir Barnham get into a fight; we don't need the neighbors gossiping!" she teased as she allowed Mrs. Eclaire to lead her over the cobblestones. Eve turned to watch them as they rounded the corner, laughing and talking as they tried to avoid the chilly wind blowing down the streets and creaking all the signs that hung over the shops with an icy touch. She shivered, pulling her cloak about her more tightly as she hurried on towards the bakery.

Finally it was in her sights, nestled snugly on its corner next to the thin alleyway shared by three closest shops on the street. The windows upstairs were boarded against the cold, the ones downstairs darkened with the smallest flicker to show that there was still a fire burning somewhere inside. It looked lonely, compared to the usual brightened displays and opened doors. She rapped on the door, pressing herself into the alcove the threshold made to keep the wind off her back. There was a pause, and then a voice called out from within in a friendly manner: "I'm sorry, but we're close at the moment!"

"Zacharias, it's me!" she called back, loudly enough that the fishmonger's wife in the stall across the street looked up at her with a condescending frown. Eve stared back unapologetically until the lock clicked and the door opened with a soft squeak. He stood at the door, looking at her with some surprise.

"Miss Eve?" He didn't seem to notice the cold as he stood there, dressed in the more casual clothing he donned when the shop was closed. "You've just missed Espella and Patty; they've gone to visit the Storyteller this afternoon."

"I know," she replied brusquely, shoving her way past him. The warm air of the bakery hit her face like a welcoming embrace along with the delicious fragrance of fresh bread and the sticky promise of orange marmalade. It really did create the perfect atmosphere for a happy bakery, but she wasn't here to admire the scent-aesthetics of baking right now. "I've come here to speak to _you_."

"Ah—oh?" He shut the door behind her and moved to the counter, where he stood stirring something in a large bowl. "What about? Is something the matter?" She gathered her courage and brandished the envelope, holding it at his eye level from across the counter. He stared uncomprehendingly at it before he seemed to recognize it. His face paled and he made a grab for it. "W-w-where did you get that?!" he cried out weakly. She was taken aback by the panic in his tone, but pressed on nevertheless.

"It was the first thing in my mailbox this morning, naturally." She stared him down and pulled out the letter from the envelope. He looked even paler as he watched.

"Y-you didn't _read_ it, did you?" he asked hopefully, eyes locked on her face and studying her reaction.

"Of course I did!" she exclaimed with a small shake of the head. "I read all my mail! Why would you put it in there if you didn't want me to read it?" Everything from the tips of his ears to his collarbone flushed as red as his hair.

"I _didn't_ put it in your mailbox!" he argued. "I don't know how it—Espella." He looked aside, realization dawning. "She wouldn't have known…damn." He ran a hand across his face, groaning softly before reaching for the letter. "Just give it to me, Miss Eve."

"No." She surprised herself, but she pulled the letter closer to her chest protectively. "It's about me, so it's mine to do with as I please." A look of bafflement crossed his features, but it was quickly replaced by a grim sense of determination.

"Give it back. It's personal." She snatched the letter out of his grasp, his fingers just brushing the edge of the envelope.

"It's not," she resounded smartly. "You wrote it about me, so I get to keep it."

"Why do you want it?" he protested, faltering. "D-did you like it?" She had been sure before that she didn't, but now something akin to confusion gripped her mind. She had no idea what to say.

"That doesn't matter." She cleared her throat, clutching the letter tighter and accidentally crumpling the paper. " _Why_ did you write it if I was never supposed to see it?" she asked accusingly. He looked irritated.

"Tis no concern of yours," he grumbled.

"Like hell it's not!" His eyes widened at her outburst, then narrowed. She felt the tension in the air rise and her heart began to beat faster. _Espella's neighbors might have something to gossip about after all_ , she thought. "Why can't you just tell me?"

"Why can't you just let me have it back?" he replied in the same sharp tone. "If you don't give it to me, I'm going to _take_ it from you," he warned. It was dangerous now; there was a solid warning of force, and his voice attested to his honesty. He wasn't above chasing her down to get that letter back at any cost. _Why does he even care so much about it? Why do_ _ **I**_ _care so much about it?! I've already read it._ Was she really so petty that she'd fight him physically over a stupid letter they were both mortified over?

"You can try." Her voice wavered only the smallest bit. His incredulous stare made her believe that he wouldn't really go through with it, but the moment she let her guard down he lunged around the side of the counter, hands grasping for the envelope. The room came to life as she leaped nimbly around the side of the table, heading for the door. There was a crash as a chair fell to the floor and he beat her to the exit, blocking it. "What's the matter with you? Why can't I keep it? After all, you wrote it for me."

"I didn't—well, I did, yes, but—you were never meant to see it!" He was at a disadvantage now; he couldn't go after her without leaving the door unguarded. "Tis no matter, since you don't like it, so why—"

"I never said that I didn't like it!" She felt herself becoming flustered and waved the letter unthinkingly to fan her face.

"So you _do_ like it?" he replied. She scoffed and fanned harder.

"Well, not—I suppose that—" She looked down and heard him give a muffled, annoyed sound.

"You either like it or you don't like it; there's no in-between," he said firmly. " _Which is it_?" She looked up at him, having never heard such an angry tone from _him_ before. He glared, hands stretching out to catch her in case she tried to duck around him and run out the door. Their eyes met and his voice echoed over and over again in her mind. _Which? Which?_

"F-fine! So maybe…maybe I _did_ like it!" She turned on her heel, cheeks flaming as she ran around the counter and through the back door into the living quarters. She heard him shout behind her and thought quickly, unclasping her cloak and tossing it behind her to slow him down. _There should be a back door around here somewhere_ … she'd seen it before from the alley, but had never went through it. She was in a small hallway, the stairs to the second level down the hall to her right. She'd never went to the left before, so she ran that way.

 _T-three doors?!_ She stopped, looking at them as her heart pounded. Which one led outside? She only had time to check one—he was still a knight, despite losing the title of Inquisitor, and he would catch up to her in mere seconds. She tried to map the layout of the bakery in her head, and chose the door she thought would be the one facing the alley. _D-damnit!_ There was another set of stairs; this must go to the root cellar! _No time._

She ran through, slamming the door behind her and plunging herself into darkness. If she kept the door open, he'd figure out which one she ran through. Hopefully he'd think she escaped out the back and give her some time to think of a way to get out of this mess. She fumbled her way down the stone stairs in the dark, holding onto the wall and trying to keep quiet. _Why did I tell him that? Why did I say that I liked his idiotic poem? Why didn't I just lie and say something else? Anything else?_

She found herself at the bottom of the stairs, her next step taking her to level ground instead of another dip. She crouched down, feeling her way around the edge of the staircase and mapping out the inside of the cellar. Her hand met with a jar and there was a clink as she moved an entire shelf. She paused, hearing footsteps directly above her head. _Shit!_ She pressed herself into a space between two wooden crates, hearing the footsteps stop, and then a creak of floorboards as they walked away. She let out a breath, sagging against the box. He hadn't heard.

She waited a moment and then slowly inched out from her space, only to duck back in when the footsteps returned, this time walking with a new purpose. She silently prayed that he wouldn't open the door, but a thin sliver of light flooded the staircase as it opened anyway. There was another pause, and then footsteps descended the stairs faster than she had, a small bubble of light bobbing along with them long after the light from the hall ceased to illuminate the ground. _Damnit, he went back for a candle?! Ugh, leave it to him to choose_ _ **this**_ _moment to be resourceful._

She pressed herself further against the box as he reached the bottom, moving until he stood in the center of the cellar. His face was thrown into flickering shadow as he turned in a slow circle.

"Miss Eve, this is ridiculous," he called out. _I agree_ , she thought to herself, but couldn't bring herself to answer. " Miss…Eve?" Now there was a tremor of doubt, his brow furrowed as he peered into the murky depths of the room. _That's right, I'm not here, I don't want to talk about this right now;_ surely now he'd think that she'd ran outside. The candle threw light on a shelf of canned vegetables and she saw the clear marks of her fingerprints in the dust as well as the jostled cans. _Can I not catch a single break today!?_ "Eve!" he exclaimed triumphantly, forgetting the polite 'Miss' in his excitement at being right about her whereabouts.

She crept out from her boxes behind him, sneaking around his body. If she could just make it to the stairs, then she could—she was so intent on watching him that she didn't watch her feet. She stumbled over a sack of grain and nearly fell, righting herself with shaking legs. An arm wormed its way around her waist and she froze before slamming her elbow back unthinkingly, her self-defense instincts winning over her rational judgement. There was a grunt of pain, the candle dropping to the floor and extinguishing on the cold stone, but he didn't let go of her.

Adrenaline coursed through her as she stood in the dark, blinking rapidly and trying to see anything other than black. His breathing was harsh in her ear, and she felt him rubbing his stomach with his free hand. Then the movement stopped and the same hand grabbed her forearm, running down her wrist and prying apart her clenched fingers to take the crumpled, nearly-torn letter. She started and tried to take it back, but it was hard to stop a hand that was impossible to see. She struggled in his grasp, cursing under her breath.

"Stop, _stop_." He wrapped his other arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides.

"Let me go! Get off of me, Zacharias! I'll—I'll have you arrested for harassment!" he chuckled darkly in her ear, arms squeezing even tighter.

"You'll be in the next cell, arrested on grounds of assault." He laughed again. "I'll probably bruise. Besides, you'll just run again if I let you go now." He trailed off, letting the silence grow as he thought. "Why did you run to the cellar?"

"I was _looking_ for the door that leads to the alley." She grit her teeth and wriggled, trying to loosen his hold. It didn't help that his body was pushed up against hers, the feeling not at all unpleasant as she fought to escape.

"Were you?" His voice was teasing now, breath wafting along her nape. He seemed to be in better spirits since he reclaimed the letter. "Or is it that you enjoy being chased down like an errant witch, _Lady Darklaw_?"

"W-what?!" She paused in her efforts, the insinuation behind his words flooring her. "H-how dare you say such a thing!" Her entire body felt like it was on fire despite the coolness of the cellar. "I don't—I'm not—"

"You said that you liked that letter, did you not?" She paused, then nodded. "So you're either entirely vain, or…" she felt something brush her temple and her eyes widened. "You're not _entirely_ adverse to the thought of being kissed." She gulped, her brain unable to find a good argument for that sort of logic.

"S-shut up!" she ordered, finally giving up and slumping down in his hold. "Let me go. I won't run… not until I have that letter back."

"You won't get it back." He obediently let her go and she rubbed her arms, her back becoming chilled from the absence of his body heat. "You won't get any of them." _I want it, though. How do I get it back?_ She sure as hell wasn't feeling in his pockets for it! She chewed her lip and thought. _Wait…_

"Any of them?" she repeated. "You mean there's more than that one?" There was a silence and she knew he was cursing his thoughtless words.

"There's six. I _think_ there's six at least, counting this one. I keep making them but I never give them to you, because they're not well-written. Like I said, I needed something to perfectly capture your essence on the page. 'Tis just that I'm good at fighting, not writing." Six?! What the hell did he see in her to write six whole poems instead of just one?! There a burning curiosity beneath the shock.

"I want to see them." She heard him move, a sharp sound of limbs and cloth in the darkness of the cellar.

"N-no! Why would you want to—'tis no matter, you're not seeing them."

"I'll trade you something to see them." Ah, this piqued his interest. All was quiet, and then:

"Trade?"

"Yes. Show them to me. We'll work out a trade for each one of them. How does that sound?"

"Why do you want them so badly?" he asked again, and then sighed. "Aye. A trade. Come on—watch your step." He moved and she saw the light from the hall shine down on his hair first, then his resigned face. There was wariness and confusion in his eyes, but he waited for her on the lowest stair before walking up them silently.

She followed him down the hall and up the staircase to the upper floor, her mind whirring on overdrive. What on earth could she trade off for six measly pieces of paper? He led her to a room she hadn't been in before, opening the door for her to go in ahead of him. It was a niche, part of the room smaller than the other due to the slope of the roof. A bed, a chest, a bureau, his armor on a stand, a smaller pallet for Constantine, and a tiny table with a basin of water—it was all the space the room had, really.

"They're in here." He opened the chest and she saw bedclothes and various personal belongings. He shoved them aside and pulled out five envelopes of similar size. He sat on the floor and motioned for her to join him, pulling the sixth letter from his pocket and placing it on the top of the pile. She could see tha tall the envelopes had her name on them. She reached for one and he blocked her hand with his foot. "What will you trade me?" He sounded about as incredulous as he felt. She looked at him, and the answer came to her in a flash of inspiration.

"A kiss." She saw another blush spread darkly over his cheeks and he stiffened, but considered the offer.

"Six."

"I beg your pardon?" His answering grin was almost smug.

"Six kisses for six letters." She opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it. "Take it or leave it." She sighed, crossing her arms and looking down at the floorboards beneath her. It wasn't as though it weren't a fair trade, but… six kisses!?

"Psh. Fine." She had no way of arguing. After all, she was the one with something to lose if she refused. She'd never be able to know what all those letters said. She reached for the first one, but he blocked her again, shaking his head with a smirk. "Alright, alright." She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable brush of his lips against hers.

Even when she was expecting it, the feeling caught her off guard and she made a small sound as he pressed his lips against hers firmly. All too quickly it was over and he pulled away, leaving her with little more than a peck. She opened her eyes in surprise, watching him absently as he handed over one of the unopened letters.

"O-one." She licked her lips, tasting the remnants of marmalade—he must have snuck some while working. She saw him gazing intently at her and cleared her throat. "Well? You still have five more."

"Right." Their eyes met again and she watched him lean in, fingers brushing her jaw and tilting her head up. Now his mouth was open as he kissed her gently, her own lips falling open as a shiver ran down her spine. He moved away and she pulled him back before he could get too far, kissing him again as her arms wrapped around his neck. He moaned and yanked her closer, hands finding her waist and bunching her shirt. His tongue brushed hers boldly, eliciting a gasp as she melted further into his touch.

"Two," she managed to say when they broke apart for air. He nodded and reached with a shaking hand for the stack, throwing another letter onto the one he just gave her. She moved to kiss him again, but he ducked his head and buried his face in her neck instead. His hand moved from the letters to her waist, then under her shirt hesitantly. When she didn't stop him, his fingers counted her ribs until they reached her chest, tracing the outline of her brassiere. "T-that's not a kiss," she half-protested, voice shaky.

She could feel him frowning against her skin, and then to her shock his tongue flicked out to taste her skin before biting gently. She whimpered, one hand covering her mouth to keep the sounds in as his fingers curled over her breast. She arched into his touch, head turning to give him better access. Finally he placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her pulse point.

"Three," she panted, the sound muffled behind her hand. He looked up at her, eyes dilated and stormy, and then his smug grin returned. Before she could say anything more she was on her back, his body between her thighs as he pulled her hand from her mouth and pressed it to the floor above her head. "Z-Zacharias?" He didn't answer, and she saw him toss another letter on the growing pile as he pushed her shirt up over her chest. Her heart pounded in anticipation, staining her cheeks a crimson that almost perfectly matched the color of his. He stared at her heaving chest until she squirmed beneath his scrutiny. "What is it?"

"It's just that…" He ran a finger down the valley between her breasts, his expression one of awe. "You look…nice."

"Nice?" She covered up her chest with her free hand, pushing his away. "Just ' _nice'_?" He grabbed it as well, forcing it up with her other and holding them both in an astonishingly strong grip.

"Beautiful," he amended, eyes soft as he moved up her body, muscles pressing into her as he kissed her nose.

"That's four," she told him.

"What?! Wait, I wasn't ready," he pouted. "That one didn't count."

"Four," she repeated stubbornly. "Two more." He sighed, but threw another letter onto her stack. His expression was mischievous as he bent to her lips again. She raised her head, but he bypassed her mouth and moved back down to her chest. She looked down incredulously in time to see his tongue dart out to wet his lips before running along the rise of her breast. Her entire body trembled and her head fell back to the floor with a _thunk_ , back arching.

His hand wormed its way to her back, supporting her while the other still held her wrists to the floor. She tried to keep her mouth shut but helpless moans worked their way out of her throat as he laved her chest with countless kisses through the thin fabric of her bra, licking and nibbling until she writhed beneath him, toes curling. She forgot what she was even supposed to be counting, her entire being focused on what he was doing to her and how delicious it felt.

"F-f-five?" She mewled hoarsely when she could finally inhale. Was it five? That had been a lot more than five, but she couldn't stop and count them, not when he was moving even lower, breath wafting across her stomach and sending bolts of electricity all through her. He was going to kill her with these teasing gestures!

He had to let go of her hands as he moved further down her body, his tongue dipping into her naval and brushing along the seam of her pants. Her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking the short strands as he placed an almost-innocent kiss against her lower stomach, his hands coming up to pluck the hem of her pants, snapping them teasingly. She took a shuddering breath and pushed him away.

"Six. That was six." He looked up at her, one brow rising imperiously. She shook her head, looking at the single letter lying all alone on his side. "You have nothing else to trade." He put the letter on her stack, hands running up her sides. He leaned down until they were nose to nose, bodies pressed together.

"Then I'll just write more," he answered solemnly, stealing another kiss. She didn't push him away, her body begging for more even as she tried to tell herself that she wouldn't let it go too far. She could already feel his erection rubbing against her inner thigh; she tried to ignore it, even as she threw her arms back aaround his neck and kissed him back with equal vigor.

"Sir Barnham, is Eve—" His nails dug into her skin and she winced, breaking apart to turn to the door. Espella stared at them, mouth agape. "Oh," she said simply, still holding the door open. "Oh."

"Espella, get out!" she shouted. The girl started and turned as red as her cloak, slamming the door shut and thundering down the stairs. They could still hear her clearly.

"Don't go up there, Aunt Patty. Sir Barnham and Eve are, well…."

"For the love of—"Eve pushed him away, yanking her shirt back down and running her hands through her hair. He sat watching her, taking a moment to gather the letters and hand them over to her. "Come on; let's go down before Mrs. Eclaire gets the wrong idea," she huffed. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back for one final peck on the cheek, finger coming up to tap the end of her nose.

"You look cute when you get angry like that," he whispered playfully. She gripped the letters tightly and checked herself once more before moving down the stairs with him two steps behind her.

"Mrs. Eclaire, don't listen to Espella," she demanded when she came in the room, her 'Darklaw' tone shining through in her growing humiliation. "It wasn't what it looked like." She couldn't see him behind her, but she almost knew that he was nodding vehemently, backing her up. The older woman eyed them both with a keen, knowing stare before smiling.

"Well, the next time you two need to have a…private chat that _can't wait_ …" she said offhandedly, turning back to the marmalade that had sat forgotten on the counter, "you might ought to think about locking the door."


End file.
